Page 85 of King of Temptation

She gives my hands a pointed look.

I plunk down into one of her kitchen chairs. “I’m technically engaged.”

“Technically?”

I look down at the diamond which catches the light even in the single bulb that hangs over my mom’s table.

“Can I ask you a question?”

She stops chopping lettuce to turn to me. “Sure.”

“Did my dad know you were pregnant?”

I see my mom swallow. “He did.”

A dull pain radiates through me. “So, he chose not to love us?”

My mom turns back to the cutting board, grabbing a tomato to slice. “We were both young. He was going to college. I…”

“Did he ever call? Ask?” I fiddle with the ring.

“A few times.”

“Ever give you money?”

“No,” my mom sighs. “He married, started a family of his own.”

“I see.” I don’t. Wasn’t I his family?

“Why all these questions now?”

“I’m pregnant, mom.” It’s easier to just put it out there and as nervous as I am for her response, I feel better for pushing the words out.

“And your boyfriend proposed?” She goes back to the fridge, pulling out some chicken.

“He did,” I answer with a deep breath. I don’t want to tell her about the ballet, or about Leo’s questionable lifestyle. Instead, I focus on myself. “But marrying would mean never being a ballerina, I think.” I thought giving up that dream would hurt more. But it doesn’t at all.

My mom stops making sandwiches, sliding into the chair across from me. “And what do you want?”

“Leo and I haven’t been dating that long.” I know I didn’t answer. “What if he’s not the right guy for me?”

“The fact that he asked is a major point in his favor.”

I nod. Because my mom is right.

And barring calling the ballet when the two of us had known each other for all of a few hours, he’s been nothing but supportive since.

I wince as I think that. “You’re not upset that I won’t get into a major dance company?”

My mother shakes her head. “Of course not. Did you go to college to be a dancer?”

“No.”

“I assumed you had different dreams when you chose UNLV.”

“But all you ever talked about was my potential.” I’m staring at her, and she has the decency to wince.

“I wanted you to be more than me, Kim. More than this,” she waves her hand at her derelict place. “Comfortable. Happy. I don’t care if you’re a dancer, a teacher, an administrative assistant. I just wanted you not to struggle the way I did.”

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